


dynasty

by MinarSmile



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Dragons, Eventual Romance, Foxes, Gods, M/M, Magic, Minor Boo Seungkwan/Choi Hansol | Vernon, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mythology - Freeform, Priests, Vaguely based of drama; Empress Qi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-10-31 12:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10899249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinarSmile/pseuds/MinarSmile
Summary: There's fire raining from the sky.Jihoon's whole life is destroyed before his eyes when bandits in black burn his home down. He's left with a monotonous guard to make his way to safety.





	dynasty

**Author's Note:**

> i did this instead of homework because a plus for procrastination
> 
> **Updated, barely.

There’s fire raining from the sky.

He can hear the incessant shouts of his maids and guards, mottled together to create a disconcerting harmony, alike his first play of the kayagum. There’s heat and smoke billowing in the air, yet his bones feel chilled inside the haven of his encompassing room.

Though, it doesn’t feel like a haven anymore with the screams of war just beyond his thin white walls.

His door rips open, and he freezes, before he recognizes the captivating indigo robes and glint of pure gold adorned around their neck. A father, a renown merchant in the kingdom of Silla with influential ties to the royal family themselves. Also, a prominent target, as his tutor had drilled in, among bandits and the uprising rebellion among the common people to name a few.

“Father,” He weakly cries out, shivering in the cloth of his simple white hanbok.

His father rushes to him, a tender, not at all composed, lustre in his eyes that belie of his usual stone mountain façade. His immaculate hands, poised from decades of stroking ink across paper, grab him by the shoulders, hasty, but gentle.

“Jihoon,” He doesn’t say it, but his only heir, final liege, knows. “You must run.”

He blinks, a stream welling up in his eyes, threatening to spill over at the words that sound like parting remarks.

Instead, he nods, even as his hands shake. There’s a guard standing at the door, inky eyes resolute and he can only hope he reflects such conviction.

For what is the first, but feels like the last, he embraces the weathered old man, their shoulders still raised in pride. A shrill scream cuts short, cutting the embrace short, and he is being pulled away by the guard.

It’s blurry, but he keeps staring back at the bright blue man that becomes smaller with each heavy step, until there’s only the midnight sky that mimics such illustrious gowns, the guard’s grip on his wrist tight. He attempts to muffle his sobs, mindlessly stepping over the cool dirt that soaks into his polished shoes as they run through the endless forest surrounding their estate. It sure does feel boundless, his breathe turning ragged, when the guard halts briefly to look down from the precipices of the mountain and down at his home.

In the black of night, his home is positively ablaze, the flames greedily licking up at the spring of his childhood and future. He can barely make out the upright figures in front, dressed in rich blacks and intense reds, an appearance not seen on surly bandits from the northern mountains or the drab peasants.

He can barely start questioning, as the guard is on the move once more, eager to leave. He’s thankful, as the sight of hungry reds and oranges are burned behind his eyes and scaling down to his toes, making him shake.

 

 

_There’s fire raining from the sky._

_But he can’t hear anything except screams, roars of flames, encroaching, but he can only watch, agape, his legs refusing to move from a huddled state behind an imposing oak tree. He’s sobbing, crying out in the smallest of murmurs, a child with his right foot caught in a glistening trap that has blood oozing onto damp, shadowy grass._

_The berries he had spent the afternoon picking lay in ruined heaps around him, indubitably for his warm mother and warmer father that bellows in shades of orange. He can’t help but neatly list all the memories he has with the town grandmother, shuffling herbs into his mouth, or the sparse children like twins Youngho and Youngjae that he would attempt hide and seek, everyone in the innocent village that is being swallowed in a cascade of horrible fire._

_There’s shades of black in the fire, and he swears he is not making up the nightmarish figure of a looming black, entirely black, monstrous figure that swarms in the midnight, breathing out heat, blood, death. It’s the stuff of legends that his mother would whisper his dreams to, mumbling about great, wise creatures that would help him if he asked. He doubts her words._

_He squeezes his eyes shuts, even as orange paints his eyelids, hoping that this isn’t happening, praying, though no god has ever answered his urges. Crying, he manages to rip his foot out of the trap, blood dripping from ashy skin that thunders with absolute pain, dragging himself further from a scene that mocks a monster in the sky battling another large, onyx figure._

_Perhaps he’s a coward, but he’s always been the weak boy in the village stuck to simple retrieval duties, dragging away from the fuel of nightmares. There’s smoke, so much smoke coiling around his throat as he struggles to breath, and he backs away, hands finding purchase on a thick root, pulling, falling down a ravine that has him stumbling in brambles. He cries as black illuminates the sky, shutting his eyes, and when he opens them again, it’s only a blue sky filled with fire._

He’s huddled in a damp, hollow cave, knees bunched up to his chest as he weakly trembles and sobs into pure white sleeves. There’s is a slim sliver of a golden necklace that his fingers find comfort in, a coming of age gift from his father a spring ago. Even his hands are still ornamented by small rubies and onyx on ornate rings, gifts from potential suitors and business partners, serving only as a reminder of his begotten place.

The impractical jewelry only weighs down his fingers and in turn his heart.

He shivers at the slight onset of wind that rustles through tall trees that imposingly stare down at his helpless figure. There’s a rustle in the darkly illuminated bushes that has him tensing up. The guard had gruffly stated he would survey the area, leaving him slightly susceptible without any weapon. He could at least make use of simple dagger, or bow and arrow considering the warfare lessons he had been fleetingly taught by the head of the Silla army.

His breathe catches when an intangible figure jumps out of the bushes, only to be a small white fox that bobs its head, surveying the area in an almost intelligent manner. His gold necklace catches in the full moonlight, causing narrow amber pupils to spot him, slinking forward cautiously. Perhaps it’s the loneliness of the night, but he allows the forest creature to tread closer to him, staring down at the white fur that matches his pristine hanbok. Hesitantly, thinking back at the head maids’ urgings of keeping his hands clean of dangerous beings of the night, shaking his head lightly he lets himself feel the soft white fur.

It comes close, satisfied by his petting, to nuzzle its small head on his side.

His hand feels warm on the hum of a living creature.

The guard returns a few beats afterwards, tall and primed for protection. They take in the strange scene of mortal and animal, before looking away to take off their black helmet, revealing a surprisingly young face.

He doesn’t know the guard’s name, but he knows that this particular high-class strategist and military official has been by his father’s side since he was younger. As a child, he was almost envious of the time his father spent guiding the peasant guard into a fine young man, instead of entertaining him. The bitter fruits of a child’s envy, he knows now.

“What is your name?” He asks lightly, voice hoarse from stifled cries. He realizes his haughty ignorance in not asking for his subordinates’ names earlier, before it became too late.

They look up from their strange task of gathering wood and putting it in a pile. “It’s Wonwoo, your highness.”

The timber of their voice is resolutely low, matching their dark attire and dark locks. He waves his hand hurriedly in the air, startling the little fox that scurries upward. “I’m not a prince. Call me Jihoon.”

They appear slightly befuddled, but nod, just as there is a spark of flames that alights from the brown sticks of wood. He shivers, even as the heat stretches through the large cave, shadows dancing on the pale blue ombre of the stone walls. The guard gets up, only to lay their thick black robe over the merchant’s son. Jihoon silently thanks the soldier, that remains unfazed in any circumstance of weather, revelling in the physical warmth.

He watches curiously as the guard sits across him, taking out his two long swords, and three daggers hidden in unruly places to clean them with a rag. The familiar symbol of the pink flower that used to grow on the edges of the estate on the end of the swords reveals that they must have been gifts from his father considering the audacious price that is set on handmade royal weapons from the east sea.

He recalls a time when he saw the monotonous man more lighthearted, when he was just of age and enjoyed duels in the courtroom with the other guards. By then, he already bested the entire staff by a large margin, a prodigy in battle and tactics, his father’s right hand man in the making.

“What…what are we going to do now?” He murmurs lowly, his inner thoughts escaping from his mouth.

Wonwoo looks up from the sheen off his smallest dagger, features hard and chiselled as a proper soldier. “Jihoon-ssi, you’re crying.”

He hadn’t realized, that the cold wetness running down his cheeks was his own, rather than the skies. His hands gingerly come up to touch his face. The guard comes up around the fire to come closer to the heir, digging in his black pockets to pull out a clean white cloth, using it to quite gently wipe away his tears.

This guard may be all he has left from home, a boy he barely ever glanced at from outside of high windows, too focused on the ink on his palms or the pins in his hair. Naturally, an heir like him doesn’t cry in front of peasants, forbidden to show a weak face. But maybe its alright if it’s his only semblance of family.

At least it is someone he knows he can trust fully, being raised by the same astute man.

His breathing levels to the soft crackle of wood under fire.

“Your father,” Wonwoo starts, tone soft. “He instructed me to take you to the kingdom of Goryeo, the capital city, to meet his friends in the royal palace.”

He starts at this information. He wasn’t aware his father’s connections extended to the royal palace, being a simple merchant from Silla.

“Not to the palace of Silla?”

Since he was young, he enjoyed playing with the Silla royal family’s heir, a rambunctious child that grew into a proud, warm hearted young man with considerable looks that garnered attention from many neighbouring princesses.

“No.” Wonwoo doesn’t meet his bearing eyes. “It is per his instructions that you follow your duties. But he also wished that you would lead a fortuitous life without qualms.”

“Of course,” He tilts his head, slightly inquisitive.

The guard clears his throat. “He is, well, he had you to be married to one of the dynasty princes.”

The heir blinks quickly. He’d expected a planned marriage. But he had assumed he would be betrothed to a simple merchant’s child, or at the very most the prince of the Silla kingdom considering their close relationship.

“Is that alright?” Wonwoo asks kindly, inky eyes dipping in light concern.

“If it is my father’s legacy, then I will accept it.” He states, mostly resolute. Though he worries, evident by the way his fingers clench tightly on the hold of his hanbok. “I trust his judgement.”

Wonwoo seems satisfied by that answer, smiling slightly in a manner he had yet to witness, before it disappears and he is a soldier once more, retuning to his spot across the heir.

There have been many revelations this day, and Jihoon feels tired against the brunt of the world. The fox returns to his side, jumping up into his laps, eyes glinting cleverly. It must be the drowsiness getting to him, causing him to read emotions in animals. He lets the darkness take him momentarily, falling asleep to the drip of water.

 

†

 

He wakes as the rays of sunlight cascade over his face, causing his hands to raise uncomfortably.

There’s something furry in his lap that has him cracking his eyes open, only to meet eyes with the white fox, almost appearing silver in the light. The embers of the fire have faded away, leaving only burnt wood and the fresh scent of autumn. The perfect season for ripe persimmons as the harvest draws nearer.

The guard spares him a meager glance, before shuffling forward.

“Breakfast for you Jihoon-ssi.” He states, gently handing him a handmade bowl woven by leaves full of berries.

Feeling his empty stomach, he graciously takes the little sustenance and politely eats each piece one by one. It must have taken Wonwoo some time to create an entire bowl, so he feels immense thanks and slight wonder at the man’s many talents.

“If you’re feeling alright, then we will start making our way to the Goryeo kingdom.”

He sees no typical carriage, nor any formidable horses to lead them there.

“Discreetly.” Wonwoo says, addressing his confusion. “Only until we reach the next village.”

He aches a bit from the non-typical use of his body, but he nods, not one to be outdone by physical limitations.

They start their arduous walk, Wonwoo silently charging forward while the heir follows closely at his heels. He cannot help but stare at the dewy expanse of the blue sky and the tall, cascading leaves that fall from high trees. Save for few trips to the village market, to the palace, or the port, he’s spent his life at home where his every wish was answered in seconds. Being witness to the expanse of mountain right behind his estate for the first time since he was a child, is stirring.

The crunch of leave under his feet is thrilling, as much as the excitable chirps of birds as they sing for their muses. His fox pads softly beside him, having taken to the boy after one night and a few berries.

“How do you know where to go?” He asks, truly curious.

Wonwoo seems vaguely amused, though the corners of his lips remain downturned. “This is the Silla peak, which faces north, where we are headed. And following the streams of water that lead to the larger Han river will also take us north.”

Jihoon glances at the small stream of water dripping down gray rocks and rippling under the sunlight, finding insight in a place not known before.

“Did you learn this as a soldier?”

Wonwoo shakes his head, tousling his brown locks that have a hint of red in them, hinting at a lineage down towards the south. “No, I knew it as a child because my village was at the top of the mountain. Before I came here.”

“What happened?” He thoughtlessly wonders out loud, before he regrets it. “I’m sorry for being inconsiderate, you don’t have to answer that.”

“I don’t know really. It happened when I was really young. A group of black robed people came, and that was the end.” The guard stares down at the leaf littered grounds while walking on. “Then your father took me in since he was friends with my father, and the rest is as shown. I’m truly grateful for your father. If not for his support, I’d probably be dead right now.”

Jihoon falls into step with him, thoughtfully regarding the tall guard.

“Well, you must’ve been raised by the best.” He says softly. Then hastily adds, “Since you’re such a great warrior and you know, a good guy too. Not saying your swordsmanship skills make up your whole assets, but they are admittedly splendid.” He babbles, unused to explaining himself.

There’s a shift in the wind, and Wonwoo has a sudden hand on his wrist, shushing him.

He turns around, vividly taking in the quiet scene of sprawling trees and thick green foliage, before he’s quickly pulling along the heir from his spot where a sharp arrow whizzes past.

They’re running immediately, his hands sweaty from the frazzled edges biting at the nips of his ears. There’s a glean of silver as Wonwoo unsheathes one sword, his other hand gripping tight on his wrist.

He doesn’t want to look back, but he can catch the figures dressed in bold blacks and reds from the corner of his vision anyways. They chase them, for a reason beyond him, with strange black masks upon their faces of striking swirls and dotted lines, that remind him of the goblins the maids would read about as a child. Soldiers. Lot’s of them too.

It’s not fact, but he has a horrible feeling that these are the same men that destroyed, ravished, his home.

He can’t recall ever running as fast, the wind prickling at his eyes. A man suddenly appears before them, and Wonwoo swiftly cuts them down in a fell slash. The blood that pools on his sword and glistening on the green grounds makes him wince externally, grasping the guard’s hand for reassurance, staying close to mortal and not the spindly arms of reaching trees.

There’s the shimmer of sunlight that breaks through the trees, and he expects the end of the forest. Then Wonwoo abruptly stops, causing the heir to gracelessly collide into him, the guard steadying them both with one hand.

He wants to mutter curses, though he never has, until he looks down. It’s a drop, a large one as well from the peak of the mountain with a huge rift to another impressive mountain, that leads into a rushing river.

Wonwoo takes a protective stance over him, sword drawn, at the incoming men in black that rush forward. Until, a lean arm in black stops their very movements.

The supposed leader of the group takes off his black mask, showing a fair skinned, undeniably good looking ebony eyed male with gleaming red beads in his brown locks that carefully assesses them. From up close, he notices this one does not yield a sword, or any other visible weapon.

“Give us the boy, and we will not hurt you.” They utter darkly.

Wonwoo laughs, a callous, artificial sound. His hand squeezes the other’s firmly before setting a hard stare on the other male.

“You’re trapped.” They observe tediously. “Under the rule of our honourable master, we will have the boy no matter any circumstance. We will not hesitate to cut you down.”

There is the emblem of a strange crane on the crest of his red belt on a starkly black outfit that catches his eyes as the group prowls forward, sure of their dominance, before there’s a yelp sounding from the handsome man. The source; a little white fox biting at his legs.

Taking the chance, Wonwoo grabs his arms, whispering a loud, “Jump!”, that has him instinctively jumping off the cliff side, gripping tight onto the loyal guard. The shocked faces of the soldiers in black appear from the top, not following their dramatic drop.

It’s instinct that he holds his breath to the impending current of air. He starts when his body is rushed into cold water, the swirling rapids pulling him in every direction. He gasps desperately for air as his head bobs upward, legs desperately attempting to stay afloat. He doesn’t recall learning how to swim in any of his numerous lessons.

“Jihoon!” Wonwoo shouts, causing him to turn just in time to grab onto a fallen tree floating on top of the murky waters. The guard easily swims toward him, grabbing alongside and even having the ease to brush back his dampened hair to observe the top of the peak.

“We’re okay for now. But they’ll follow the edges of the river.” He says, his brows furrowed in thought. “We’ll have to cut through the upper forests and hide at the monastery.”

The heir breathlessly nods, teeth chattering from the low temperatures inside of the frigid water.

The guard stares at him, the picture of concern. He doesn’t remember such an expression regarding him since, his mother was alive. She had been especially lovely, a maiden hunting sparrows his father coincidentally met in the forests. Apparently. She passed when he was just a babe, so he lacks any proper memories, save for the impossibly kind hazel eyes that observed him as if he put the stars in the sky.

“Just breathe, Jihoon.” Wonwoo comforts him. “We’ll be out soon.”

“Promise?” Jihoon jokes. Though from the shivers that wrack his body, it doesn’t feel like a joke, but more like a plea.

“Promise.” He says in the most serious manner, and the utter conviction in his voice has the smaller male consoled.

“Distract me?” He asks timidly, unlike he was before, on a high pedestal to be simply adored.

Wonwoo’s mouth purses thoughtfully, before he starts spewing a tale of warm summer nights and mischievous escapades with the village children. The heir listens intently, excited by the mundane, yet spectacular tale of kids on the quest for a frog that slightly warms his body. He finishes with a satisfying end of stolen mandarins, then begins steering the fallen branch to the side of an open expanse into tall trees.

“We’ll leave from here,” He states, lugging the branch onto the shore, before offering a hand up for the younger boy that gratefully takes it. “There’s a monastery up here where we can get some resources.”

“Not to stay?” He questions, longing for a warm bed and a hot bath.

Wonwoo shakes his wet hair, before draping his black robe over the boy’s simple white hanbok of fine material that kept together for the journey so far. “You’ll be most safe in the palace.”

His dampened clothes are cold, but the glare of the sun gives him abundant warmth, along with the soldier’s robe.

“Be careful in these woods.” Wonwoo adds as they start their arduous trek. “There are strange creatures as we come north.”

It seems his advice falls short on distracted ears, as Jihoon can’t help a bright smile lift his features when a white fox prances out from the trees. It may be hard to differentiate between all the various foxes, but he is sure from the curious glint in amber pupils that this is his fox.

“Do you want a name?” He asks the fox, that responds with a knowing glint that quells his worries that he may be ridiculous starting conversations with an animal. “Or perhaps you already have a name.”

It excitedly frolics forward, incredibly arrogant for creature of his size, as if attempting to lead the way. Wonwoo spares him a puzzled glance that has him wearing a sheepish expression, looking away at the bright sky.

“Have you been to Goryeo?”

Wonwoo ponders on it. “Once, for a business exchange with your father.”

Jihoon brushes away at his drying hair. “How was it?”

“It’s a very prosperous place. If not a merchant’s fantasy.”

His eyes seem to trace the fox’s movements that they are coincidently following, taken by it’s sheer intelligence or the fortune behind its steps.

Delving into the forest, the expanse of trees thickens, and it as if the leaves darken, the slivers of sunlight less frequent. The white fox appears to shine in the dark due to it’s rich colour, and he wonders if his mottled, damp white hanbok has similar effects.

They come to a thick entanglement of vines, that Wonwoo gingerly lifts, revealing a sprawling meadow of pale pink and lavender flowers a dark brown monastery with a dark green top of tiles. The fox is immediately playing, and Jihoon can’t help the elated feeling that similarly wells up in his chest.

Wonwoo cracks a quick grin, crossing untamed pastures, before firmly making his way up the dark stairs to the great doors that open before he reaches them.

A man in light blue robes greets them amiably, bright eyes full of wisdom contrasting a youthful figure.

“Come in. I’m sure you’re hungry.” He states, just as the heir’s stomach growls softly in hunger. Jihoon’s ears tint a shallow pink as he hurries into the temple after the guard and the priest.

“Jihoon, right?” They say, startling him as they walk along a long, sage scented hallway of open doors that show dutiful priests and the golden statues of their deity; a creature mixed between a fox and a human based on it’s many tails. “Your father was a generous patron of this temple and often spoke of his greatest son and light.”

He wants to smile, but it feels too bittersweet, his chest heating up.

The priest appears to notice this subtle change in the air. “Is, everything alright?’

Wonwoo steps in, barely meeting the other’s eyes himself. “The estate was attacked. I’m - we’re unsure of the fate of the master.”

His eyes widen a bare fraction, hands roped with wooden beads wrapped around his wrist, clasping in an honourable prayer. “May he be safe.”

He appreciates the action of solidarity, though there is the watery feeling in his chest that has him stutter as they reach a room with a table, in which he gestures at them to take a seat. Maybe he lacks the sanguinity of Wonwoo, but he doesn’t, he couldn’t truly believe that his father is still well. The skies themselves seem to indicate that he is in a greater place, with their blossoming clouds and heartrending spectacle.

The priest returns with bowls of rice and dishes including meat that they both greedily eye. He gently serves them, telling them to enjoy.

“My name is Jisoo. A priest here at the monastery.” He tells them as they eat a hearty meal. “So, where are you to go?”

“The capital city of Goryeo, to the royal palace where Jihoon will be safest.” Wonwoo says while munching voraciously at his rice. “We needs horses, and probably a change of clothes for the young master. If you’d be so inclined.”

Jisoo smiles gently, nodding. His eyes curl up when he smiles in a compelling action. “Of course. It is the least that we can do.”

A bald priest comes forward, and Jisoo whispers into his ears before returning to gaze at the strange pair.

“Are you alright by the way, young master? You seem a bit damp.” He notices, brows lowered slightly.

“We were in the river,” Jihoon quips jokingly, before he takes the confused look on the priest’s face. He’s beginning to associate a sense of peaceful and pure tedium with this man of dark hair and light features.

“We were escaping from the men that attacked the estate.” Wonwoo clears up.

“The rebellion?” Jisoo questions, twiddling with the brown beads on his wrist.

“No. I don’t know who they are.” Wonwoo admits, staring sullenly at his empty bowl.

The heir finishes a hefty drink of water. “They had an insignia of a crane on their belts though.”

The priest’s eyes slightly widen, for a fraction of a second, before it disappears and his face is unyieldingly composed. “A crane, you say?”

Jihoon nods, eyeing the priest briefly before returning to his meal.

Jisoo remains silent for the rest of their meal, before the bald priest returns and he hands the heir and the guard a new stack of clothes plus proper footwear to exchange for their wet ones. The heir reappears in a simple pale lavender hanbok while his guard in a dark grey attire, while still retaining his armour.

The priest steps up to the heir, before placing a lavender robe over his head.

“As a disguise. You will appear as a couple rather than a guard and master.” He states.

He must admit it’s a clever idea, though it won’t hold off soldiers for long. Though he has mixed feelings about being the apparent woman in the relationship.

The priest leads them outside, while wearing a cape over his hanbok despite the clear weather. From the steps, he whistles shrilly, only for a trio of horses to appear from behind the temple all the sudden. Wonwoo narrows his eyes at the odd numbers, while the heir gradually comes up to a speckled brown horse that he instantly takes to.

“I will join you on your journey to deliver the young master.” Jisoo states, pulling the strings of his cape tighter.

“That’s not necessary.” The guard replies. “I know the way by heart.”

Jisoo strides toward a horse, pulling himself up with fluid ease. His voice lowers, a quieter tone to escape the ears of the young highness. “Trust me. Considering your opponent, you will need assistance.”

Wonwoo gives at that, reluctantly heading to help the heir up his horse, along with the fox that rests on his lap, before jumping up on the last horse.

“You are bringing a fox?” Jisoo asks.

Jihoon nods, stance protective over the little white creature.

“Alright.” The priest says, though seemingly shaken by a staring contest with amber pupils.

Wonwoo pulls at the reins, leading the way out of the forest. Behind him the young heir that struggles at first, but finds the rhythm of the horse, followed by the quiet priest.

 

They ride for what feels like ages for Jihoon, though it is only the expanse of one day, only having stopped for brief water and food.

They only come across an old man dragging a carriage of hay on the dirt strewn paths that praises the newly wed couple in a heavy accent from the north.

According, to Wonwoo, they will only ride along the dirt paths far away from the villages, in case word gets out or they come across another soldier. Which only makes the rides quieter, and there are only so many stories Wonwoo, a peasant, can tell, causing the heir’s eyes to become heavy.

 “Are you tired Jihoon?” Wonwoo asks, trotting at a quick pace.

 “A bit,” He admits, as the sun slowly starts to disappear behind the far mountains.

“Then we can call it a night,” The guard says, swerving through some trees to find a decent clearing. Upon following a quiet trickle of water, he finds a cozy expanse behind impressive trees and hanging vines shielded from view beside a stream.

They dismount their horses, but don’t tie them up as Jisoo assures them they’ll come when it is time. The heir uses the blankets brought by the priest to lie on, comfortably and warmly curled up with the white fox. Though he stays awake long enough to witness the priest make strange markings in the grass with a random stick, saying a soft incantation, before indubitably falling asleep.

“It’s a protection charm,” Jisoo responds to the questioning looks from the guard that makes a quiet fire with ease.

“I don’t believe in that.” He calmly states, resting on a dark boulder.

The priest seems confused by that statement, having been raised in a pious temple. “Myths hold truth in them, and legends have origins.”

“Are you saying dragons are real?” Wonwoo guffaws lightly.

The priest doesn’t respond, instead choosing to sit down and close his eyes. The guard huffs at the strangeness of their actions and turns over to sleep beside the heat of steady flames.

 

 

There is roar that stirs Jihoon awake, startling upwards, causing the white creature to tumble out of his lap.

It’s a great roar that sounds something like a beast. He turns to find comfort in his guard, only to find the space they occupy empty, no doubt having left to survey the area again without any exchange of words. There is the priest, that does not seem experienced in combat, whose eyes are slightly widened at the sound.

Large footsteps become louder, making the heir brush away the blanket and stand poised, even without a weapon, because he still has pride as a merchant’s son.

Then there is crash of trees and the creature barges into the quiet alcove, roaring ceaselessly in a way that has him unsteady. It’s something akin to a bear, though he remains unsure due to it’s abnormally large size and pointedly black colour, not to mention it’s gleaming eyes. It seems to eye him ravenously, before the priest dashes in front of him, holding the same random stick from yesterday.

He starts muttering strange words, in a language he cannot decipher, and spins the stick around in his hands. Enraged, the bear starts ambling forward, before the priest gives one final push and the bear is blown back by an invisible force.

“Yes, I did it!” Jisoo cries excitedly, reaching for his wooden beads and in his haste dropping that stick that loudly crunches under his polished shoes.

He pales, as the bear starts to rise once more, this time more intensely furious.

“You can’t do it again?” Jihoon pleas, feeling increasingly hopeless.

“Not without an outlet. Plus, I’m all out of energy.” Jisoo admits, still choosing to hover over the boy defensively in an honourable fashion, though his legs shake nervously.

The bear gets up, aiming straight at them and Jihoon is already wincing from it’s sheer size and sharp, serrated teeth. Then his fox prances forward, which has him shouting, until he blearily realizes that his fox is getting bigger by the second. There’s a spark in the air, and instead of his familiar small fox, there’s a tall, lean male standing in it’s place dressed in white robes with silver swirls and patterns.

“Humans.” He states arrogantly. “Quite foolish and never prepared.”

He turns to the bear charging toward it, eyes glinting amber as it stops the beast right in its tracks with outstretched arms. Before he shouts in a twisted tongue, and the great beast disappears.

“Gumiho,” Jisoo whispers, before going down to his knees and bowing his head.

The fox, or man, or Gumiho, smirks proudly, staring down at the priest and stroking at his striking blonde locks that frame a chiselled, beautiful face fit for a mythological creature

“You, are my fox?” Jihoon asks, still in awe and utter confusion at the sudden transformation. He’s never been one to refute the mysticisms of the forest, unlike his stoic father. His home kingdom, Silla, is one heavily devoted to the Gumiho creature over the other illusive goblins.

“The name is Jeonghan,” He slowly articulates, before lowering his head briefly as his cheeks shade a slight maroon. “And I do suppose I am yours for the time being.”

“Wow,” Jihoon breathes, dazedly stepping closer. Though still feeling a bit miffed that this is what he slept with at night. “And your tail?”

“I have seven.” Jeonghan states proudly, chest puffing up more when the priest gives him a slow clap.

“Thank you for saving us. Jeonghan.” The heir honestly adds, hands still atremble from the experience.

The fox opens his mouth wide, before a familiar dark figure trudges into the alcove. Wonwoo stops in his tracks, swiftly on edge.

“Who’s this?”

“It is a Gumiho that has blessed us with their presence.” Jisoo utters, clutching at his wooden beads with a dazed look of candid awe. There are rumours that the Silla priests gain power from foxes, as shown by his reverence.

Wonwoo takes in the information with narrowed eyes. “Wait…the little fox?”

“Yeah.” The heir admits, before noticing a slash on the guard’s unmarred face. “Are you alright?”

Wonwoo clicks his tongue nonchalantly, even as the smaller male comes close to stare concernedly at the pinpricks of blood welling up at the cut. Still shaken by his own encounter, the heir gives the guard a tight hug. The guard seems surprised by the show of affection not easily seen by a child of an upperclassman.

“There was a huge black bear.” He starts, sighing. “I slashed it up pretty good, but it got a scratch on me when it appeared out of nowhere.”

Jihoon confusedly looks at the fox that awkwardly whistles a shanty while staring away at the corners of the trees. “I thought you killed the beast?”

Jeonghan laughs, a weightless, tinkling sound suited for a trickster. “I’m not a killer. More of a magician. Anyways I cleared it, didn’t I?”

The heir disregards them to turn to his guard, brows knitting at the wound and the soft curve of his lips turning down. “Does it hurt?”

“It just stings a bit. Nothing I can’t handle.” Wonwoo shakes his head, dark gaze softening at the smaller boy that clutches onto him steadily.

“Alright, I’ll heal him.” The fox spouts exasperatedly, breaking apart the heir and the guard to reach a pale hand to Wonwoo’s cheek. There is a silver glow that subsides from the palm of his hand, and the blood steadily disappears. Jihoon is astonished by the now unmarred patch of fair skin, as the fox steps away haughtily.

He smiles unabashedly at the taller Gumiho, feeling his dimples show through in a rare spectacle uncommon for a practiced merchant’s son built on indifference. They glance away and shift into a small white fox to scramble about under his legs.

 

 

_The man is tall, but not as tall as his father, long arms that are not taut with muscle, but rather lanky. His hands are not calloused, only soft, as he pulls him along a dusty road._

_He sniffs, openly crying from a face caked with mud, ash, smoke, everything he despises, even as a high, white wall comes into view, litters of yellow, pink flowers propping from corners. He cries in blubbers of incoherent letters, bemoaning, wishing, wanting, mourning, mostly._

_“Your father was a good friend of mine.” The man states, a sturdy hanbok of blue paraded on his shoulders, billowy black hat almost shielding wizened eyes. “Which means you are apart of my household.”_

_Watching blue track down his eyes, he shakes his head._

_“I can’t protect you forever,” The man sighs, resting gentle hands on his thin shoulders, a gangling mess of limbs not quite grown, but too large for a mere child. “But I can teach you. How to be a proper man, a great soldier.”_

_He is pulling him to large, auburn coloured doors that open to a dusty courtyard and a humbly fashioned estate, low tiled roofs gleaming under a high sunlight. Maidens and fellows in sashaying robes or thick, armoured attire dazzle around, greeting the man in low bows, an atmosphere of jovial respect and admiration._

_But nothing like his home, a quaint, parched abode surrounded by high trees that blocked the view of an immense night sky._

_He spots a low pagoda as the man urges him forward, the peek of a tangerine shade of hanbok and curving eyelids trace his movements with the barest of envy, which confuses him. then his attention is brought back to the aged man that smiles down at him kindly, honestly, and he stifles back the need to sob._

 

 

It’s the very pinpricks of air that shifts when they enter the northern kingdom of Goryeo. The trees are spindlier, of a lighter white bark with mushrooms growing from the sides. The heir pushes down the rising feelings of missing the salty tang of his hometown, trading it for the novel cedar musk.

The fox Jeonghan rests lethargically on the heir’s shoulders, cocooned around his neck. Jihoon grips tighter on the reins when they reach the outer edge of a bustling, prominent city. The capital city, renown in all the three kingdoms for it’s merchant wealth and fortress strongholds. He can only spot the high shingles of the might royal palace, as there is a huge scarlet wall surrounding it.

Jisoo stops the trio, urging the heir to come down, in order to straighten out the lavender hanbok, fasten the pale robe around his shoulders after gently persuading the fox off, and fixing his black locks. Finally, he adds a floral head pin in his hair.

“It’s a charm of good fortune.” He says, features softening into something more than an old priest would wear.

The heir smiles sheepishly before mounting his horse once more. Wonwoo appraises him with a content grin, before pulling his horse forward to the city at the foot of the hill.

Coming closer, the city is even more larger than the capital of Silla. The bustle of people in colourful robes subsides to make way for the trio as they ride past, woman with black locks braided on top of their heads whispering amongst each other while scholars in simple colours rove over the sight. The stares of peasants are pointed, but the heir remains steadfast and even offers a smile for a small child in a lofty dress.

As they reach the impassive walls of the palace, the simple homes become taverns and courtesan abodes, painted in deep reds and subtle navy. He admires the soft notes of kayagum flitting in the atmosphere, unquestionably accompanied by a graceful dance of fans and swans. The soldiers here dress in a dark crimson with pointed spears decorated by eminent feathers. The ones guarding the daunting gates are similarly in red, but their scarlet attire is inlaid with linings of fur and gleaming gold buttons down the middle.

Wonwoo halts in front of the threatening guards with a mirroring unnerving appearance.

“I am in the company of the merchant Lee’s heir.” He brazenly announces, posture rigid and face inexpressive.

The two guards share an unidentifiable look, before the taller one looks up to face the extensive walls.

“Open the door!” They shout.

The heavy doors of a dark, unwavering wood slowly move open, slivers of a sky littered in violet and rouge peaking through. The heir stifles an impressed gasp at the sheer magnitude of the palace, as a bulking maroon structure comes into view that captures his eyes. Crossing the carefully inlaid path, there is a bustle of handmaidens, people of evident nobility, and soldiers lively in the courtyard. The nobility, yangban, especially stare at them, a class of the shallow.

The heir feels his nerves rising, in anticipation to meet a king possibly. Blinking quickly, remembering his father’s constant advice on manners and courage, he clenches his hands.

Jisoo is politely agape at the scenery, wordlessly flicking his gaze from the dignified soldiers to the curious young maids glancing from behind the shadow of the palace. The fox trails after the mortals, fur prickling uncomfortably in the new environment. Only Silla truly valued the métier of the great foxes. But Goryeo appeared to favour the gods instead, or at least the elusive dragons.

Wonwoo reaches the doors to the palace first, holding it open for the heir, who carefully steps into the grand, empty throne room. A servant in dark green spots them, bowing his head low.

“Please inform the king, that merchant Lee’s son is here.” The guard asks, to which they bow once more and scurry off into the depths of the hallways.

It’s a daunting, remarkable room that leads to the two great thrones of fine jewels seated at the front. There is even a second floor that overlooks the grand room, where he can spot a few servants ambling to their duties. He silently praises the rich velvety tapestries displayed on the walls, of poetry and art pieces boasting of the kingdom.

He hears the king before he sees him, the entourage of servants in front of him stepping forward, before parting, to make way for the man around his father’s age in a deep red hanbok with the insignia of a dragon laced in gold on the middle. The king almost appears frazzled, even with his great bronze crown.

“Ah, Jihoon-ssi,” He says in a calm tone, extending a hand towards the young boy who is fazed by the king’s tenor of respect. “I did not expect your arrival.”

 He bows low, as does the guard and priest for the ruler of the kingdom.

“I’m sorry, your majesty.” The guard states stiffly. “Circumstances had us arriving at the palace quite early.”

The king seems alarmed, but does not ask further. “Well, how about I have you settled in. I’m sure you are tired from your long journey.”

He seems hasty to have them off the premises, and assigns many servants to assist in their stay. The guard appears to want to argue, but bites his tongue and allows the manservants to drag the trio away into a long hallway that cuts into a different section of the palace that is separated by a bountiful garden.

“Here is your room, sir.” The handmaiden bows, before Wonwoo stops her just as she is to leave.

“Is everything alright? I hope we are not intruding.” He asks, handsome features creasing.

She blushes. “Of course sir. It’s just that the king is, momentarily preoccupied with other guests.”

Wonwoo nods, allowing her to leave. He enters the luxurious room laid out with various products of vanity, only after watching the heir, along with the discreet fox, be escorted into the adjacent room safely.

Jihoon appraises the generous room that has a bed fit for a king, smiling at the numerous servants that wordlessly stare at him. The self acclaimed leader of the servants, or most mature, black hair cropped closely to his head, suddenly opens the closet, pulling out a rich robe of startling dark burgundy and patterns in a muted silver.

He waves his hand, not wanting to solidify a servant’s workload. “That’s not necessary.”

He clicks his tongue, pointedly staring at his simple attire in a way that makes Jihoon feel sheepish.

“You’ll need a shower as well.” He states, leading him to the veiled large tub in the room that another servant is filling up with water and rose petals. He reaches to remove his hanbok, to which he steps back, face colouring pink.

“I’ll do it by myself, thank you,” He says, alerting the servants to trudge out of his room. The lead servant gives him one more suspicious look before shutting the door.

With the sense of privacy, he is able to take off the humble hanbok and enter the steaming water that relaxes his tense muscles. He lets out a small gasp when the fox jumps in as well, padding at the surface of the hot water.

“Jeonghan,” He whispers, careful not to alert any handmaidens. The fox bubbles at the top, tiny hands clawing at the water, before they sink. Jihoon is immediately alarmed, hands reaching into the murky depths, foggy from numerous rose petals.

Jeonghan emerges, this time in human form, gasping for breath beside the heir.

“Are you alright?” Jihoon asks. The fox grins at him after coughing out the excess water, silver hanbok dampened and sticking to his lean frame.

“Peachy.” He replies, coming to sit down beside the mortal. The heir chuckles at their antics, always foolhardy and entirely haughty not akin to such a sophisticated appearance through any fell circumstance.

After soaking in the water for what he believes is long enough and mussing up his hair with the foreign liquid the fox proceeded to rub into his unruly locks, Jihoon slips out, quickly robing himself in a simple white gown as per their instructions.

The fox seems pleased with the fine hanbok laid out on the soft bed, aiding him in wearing the hefty gown that slightly weighs him down.

“Foxes are quite vain creatures, you know.” He explains, deftly brushing back the boy’s softened dark locks. The boy hums in silent agreement.

Then the fox proceeds to pinch at the boy’s cheeks, who was nearly falling asleep to the warm threading of their hands. Jihoon cries out, though instantly hushing down to an inaudible volume. “Ow!”

“It’s for the colour.” The fox states, staring prudently at his face.

“Alright, but may you not inflict physical pain.” He complains.

The fox appears to have a brilliant thought, holding out the palm of his hand, only for a ripe, rouge berry to appear.

“Did you create that?” Jihoon curiously wonders.

“I just stole it out of the garden,” The fox shrugs, urging the boy to press his lips on the berry. “There.”

Jeonghan appears impressed by his own work, amber eyes alight in joy, though the heir cannot respond to such sentiment because there is no apparent mirror in the room. Instead, he admires the fresh glow of his golden necklace. There is static knock on the door, and the Gumiho shifts into a small white fox hiding under the tresses of the boy’s hanbok.

The manservant slides into the room, frown clear, until his eyes reach the adorned heir, to which he lets out a surprised breath.

“I was under the impression that I would have to drag you into the robe,” He muses, clearing up the robes in the closet and straightening the bedsheets while a few other servants go to clean the tub.

Jihoon wears a coy smile as a white tail swishes from the edges of the burgundy fabric. “What’s your name?”

“Sorry?” The servant pauses, staring at the heir. His slanted almond eyes are dark and calculating, leading to considerably long eyelashes. It is an unsaid requirement that servants of the palace are attractive.

“Your name?” He asks politely, eager to find a name for the dutiful, headstrong man.

“It’s, Soonyoung.” He says, after a thought.

He nods, swishing around in the fluid hanbok. There is another knock on the door, and the servant dutifully goes to open it, immediately stepping away with a lowered head. It’s Wonwoo, pacing nervously around the dark hallway, no other guards in sight. His inky eyes assess the lavished state of the heir, softening briefly. His rough guard attire is traded for a dashing violet hanbok, an unusual colour for any peasant considering its high esteem. But it suits his chiselled features and large frame.

“Jihoon,” He says, before glancing at the frowning servant. “Ssi.”

Jihoon smiles lamely, comforted by the taller male’s presence in an instant. The servant scurries away with his subordinates, reading the quiet mood.

“It’s Jihoon.” He replies, and the guard’s features lift. “You look nice.”

The guard stiffens, uncomfortably picking at the edges of such a gown unadorned by him in his entire lifetime. The tips of his ears redden cumbersomely, foreign in material that is not sinewy and meant for immediate combat.

“I told them I was fine, but the maids were incessant. Plus, they were considerably strong.”

“You look nice yourself,” Wonwoo says kindly, tone reminding him of the summer breeze in it’s nebulousness.

Jihoon coughs, shyly lowering his gaze to the white tail sticking out from the tresses of his hanbok. He’d often been told his soft features were from his mother, oddly feminine and pale skinned in a way his broad-shouldered father did not resemble. Even his small height could be traced back to his agile mother. Basically, he’s been complimented often, but he had never assumed it as truth.

There is the parading scent of flowers in the air, that remind him of the pink blossoms that would grow on the edge of his father’s estate. It stems from the end of the scarlet hallway, where clear light streams into the palace by open windows. It only takes a shared look with the guard to have them heading to the garden of the great palace, surrounded by the east wing and lush bridges over trickles of river flowing from right outside of high walls.

The guard intakes a slow breath at the expansive garden, lines of pale, brightly illuminated flowers from a multitude of locations based on the velvety drooping of some incredibly yellow petals and other simple carnations. The wind whispers gently, and the fox scrambles out to gingerly sniff at the green grass as the heir steps forward.

“We had that flower at home,” Jihoon points out opportunely, wistfully staring at the array of pink and lavender buds peeking out beside the opulent rivulet.

The guard doesn’t respond, seemingly lost by the lively arrangement. The heir accepts his silence and scampers toward the gleaming red bridge that crosses the river, leading to a small resting citadel beside a low cherry blossom.

He steps onto the bridge, gazing down at his clear reflection in awe, not noticing that his fox remains situated behind his abstracted guard, amber pupils darting back and forth. The richly coloured hanbok is irradiated under the sunlight, silver patterns of ancient clouds prominent, giving his paler skin a strange glow. Perhaps it’s just him, but he swears his hair became lighter compared to yesterday’s ebony.

There’s a ripple in the tranquil stream, delicate fish swimming away in a flurry. He looks up, to find a boy standing in the citadel, though he swears it was empty only a few moments ago.

Strangely, he’s dressed in a startling gold, a trademark of a western dynasty that boasts a kinship to the holy heavens themselves. Haloing long burnished gold robes swaying on the edges of the earth with dark ribbons of amber rope trailing its length. They’re tall, and based on his bold stance and proper posture so is his undiminished pride. But most striking of all is his blonde hair. It strikes him as severely odd, as he has only seen dark haired individuals near the sea for all his life.

He is no peasant, that is evident from the very atmosphere that carries a hallowed, almost sacred sense of veneration.

There are voices that sound in a strange fashion from behind them, causing them to bark a response. In a startling discovery, he recognizes the clipped words and odd vowels, a language taught from his father that made countless journeys to the vast land to the west; the Yuan dynasty. He vaguely recalls memorizing the difficult words, eyebrows scrunching up in concentration. The wind picks up, brushing hair into his face.

“Are you mine?” A deep voice asks in his mother tongue without any trace of accent.

His head snaps up, mouth hanging open in confusion as the man previously across the river stands in front of him on the red bridge. For a strange reason, they hold gazes, the inkiness of his eyes underlying with vivid shades of indigo, reminding him of the night sky at the top of the Silla peak, as the numerous stars would avidly streak the sky in plush pink and sweet amethyst as they fell.

Jihoon looks down shyly. Up close, the man’s features are abnormally attractive. Unearthly, the way his sun kissed skin and prim features are cascaded by blinding blonde locks. His ears are adorned by honey gold earrings that shimmer in the light, the design of a great beast etched onto the globules.

His ears prickle confusedly after taking in the odd words. “Excuse me?”

“You are mine, right?” They say in a self assured, sickeningly haughty tone. He barely notices that the old king ambles behind the man, the only figure adorned with a crown, due to the indignance that rises inside his chest.

“You must be mistaken,” Jihoon smiles saccharinely, a practiced expression ideal for trade. “Now if I may be excused,”

“Jihoon-ssi!” This time it is the king that calls him, grand scarlet robe fluttering in the hasty breeze. The red colour esteemed in his dynasty looks impressive, yet undermined by the ceaseless golden. He understands why the great king would appear so weary, especially in the company of such an arrogant guest. “This is, your betrothed.”

He freezes. And the other man simply smirks, lips curling up to reveal sharp pearly white teeth.

He can hear his mind whirring uncomfortably as he takes in his fell circumstance, poised expression falling. He’s a willful, dutiful person. Yet his perpetual dreams had him expecting a gentle, intelligent and well mannered counterpart that would adore flowers and could play a whole tune.

“Jihoon,” Wonwoo voice tender, his stance is tense as he stands beside the smaller male, warily eyeing the gleaming man. “Ssi. Are you alright?”

He wants to clutch his guard, a weight in his airy world, but it’s inappropriate in any social situation to reach for help from a peasant.

Instead, he stares at the hard ground of the bridge, sight foggy in clear weather, and nods.

Again, the man triumphantly smirks, appraising the heir.

 

†

 

“Are you really alright?” The guard asks for what feels like the thousandth time as the heir trudges into his empty room, expression downcast in a way similar to when his father became sick in the villages across the sea, leaving him to a hollow estate, coinciding with the time he was banned to make contact with other children.

“I’m fine,” Jihoon murmurs, sitting on the edge of the finely made bed.

“Jihoon-ssi,” He starts.

“It’s Jihoon!” He almost yells, before his voice drops low. It was a rule instilled by his father, to never release his temper. “And I’m really alright. If it is the will of my father, then I will gratefully accept his commandment.”

Wonwoo appears trapped, unlike a proper guard in a mundane circumstance between master and guard. He ruffles roughly at his dark hair, before kneeling.

“But what do you want?”

Jihoon’s mouth opens irately, before snapping shut as his gaze wanders. It’s an easy question; follow the will of his father and succeed the business his father cultivated. That’s what he’s trained for his whole life, as the heir. Yet, his mouth feels dry, and his mind is left blank. He remembers hearing stories from his father about his mother; a bright lady that remained unabashed, soaring the skies and climbing up trees to her fancy. Her name was Miho. He wishes he could ask them what to do, when he’s spent his whole life having fate drawn out.

“I,” There’s a thought of flowers in his mind. “Don’t know.”

The guard has a sad smile, rising slowly. “Think about it, Jihoon.”

It’s when he leaves the premise of his room that he realizes how truly quiet it is.

 

 

_It’s short of a dapper scene, as he grips a hard-wooden stick for the first time, awkwardly eyeing a roughly impassive man in evident armour that stares criticizingly at his haphazard form. The boys around him swing their swords recklessly, tripping over their feet at the sheer weight._

_Nervously swallowing, he attempts to swing down the stick even as his movements feel rushed and brusque in the constricting attire of a heavy soldier uniform compared to breezy hanboks. It hits the ground in a resounding thud, as he winces, staring fearfully up at the head of the estate guards._

_Strangely, they are wearing something akin to a smile, twisted and all sharp edges. The man huffs in boisterous laughter, clapping a large hand on his back that has him jolting forward. “Not bad for a first try,” He ruffs._

_“Really?” He accidentally voices, staring wondrously at the weapon, wondering if he really has an affinity in something other than throwing stones in rivers._

_The man rolls his eyes, swinging his own sword deftly, easily, experienced, and he hopes that one day he can use the blade with such ease. “Don’t go getting a big head there, forest boy.”_

_“I’m not,” He murmurs, even as he can’t help the goofy grin that emerges from his downturned lips, eyes lightening to the weight of the stick in his gangly arms. Perhaps he’s found a talent, in an unexpected place, even without the supportive guidance of his father. He gulps, washing the memories away, focusing the blur of emotions on the flick of his wrist as he maneuvers the stick._

 

 

The next few days in the palace are nothing short of agony.

The king is madly determined to have him and the stubborn male bond, who he comes to know as Mingyu, the prince of a fortuitous clan in the Yuan dynasty. He’s not sure when clans started to induct royalty into their regulation, but he supposes it’s an outsider group based on the male’s strange customs and mannerisms. Plus, the head servants are preoccupied and very vocal about their turmoil finding the perfect robe from across the eastern lands, setting up for the unavoidable grand wedding to be held, which he is steadily dreading.

For one, he vehemently dislikes swordplay and sits out for a dueling showcase between the guards, but is avidly entertained by arrows. He adorns himself in golden robes each day, all entirely elaborate and carefully sown with glimmers of silver and scarlet, as well as the rare citrine length. Not to mention the illustrious heaps of gold on his fingers, neck and ears.

They’re walking along the halls of the palace once more, the king and the majority of the servants having scurried away to give them time alone, much to his chagrin.

“You’re quite small, you know.” Mingyu states in his deep voice, blonde hair flawlessly coiffed. “The people of my land would tower over you.”

Jihoon hides the gritting of his teeth and portrays a saccharine smile. Forced by the belligerent Soonyoung, he is wearing an undeniably appealing hanbok of indigo, resembling the night sky with it’s numerous stars inspired by honey thrums. It’s his favourite colour. “Is that so.”

“Yes, my four siblings all happen to be taller than me.” This is the first mention of his family, and it has the heir’s attention piqued. “But they are less accomplished than me.”

It is not his quote unless it ends in self-importance. He misses the company of the small white fox that fervently refuses to join on his deliberate encounters with this prince, silver tongue silencing whenever the gold robed boy comes around.

“I don’t have any siblings.” He’s envious of life with that many kin, though the lavish often restrict the number of children in case of inevitable competition.

“I imagine you wouldn’t.” Mingyu lazily drawls, bronze hanbok barely trailing the stunning floor. “As your mother is unfortunately gone.”

“You knew my mother?” Jihoon asks curiously. Was the maiden not raised on Silla soil?

They are passing through a great room with paintings of former kings, great men and women embellished in sumptuous scarlet robes, ebony locks entrapped in braids or freely falling on raised backs. They share a similar trait of inky eyes, unmoving, yet still causes his nerves to rise uncomfortably as they walk past the imposing figures that accurately look down upon him. They remind him of the weathered king, as well as his young son, a good-natured, genial fellow by the name of Chan that steps forward where his father is afraid. He has the exact makings of a great king in the foreseeable future.

Mingyu stares at him, as he often does without a hint of shame.

“Everyone does.” He replies. “But I never met her in person. Though I did meet your father. Quite the interesting mortal.”

“You met my father?” Jihoon expected it, as his father wouldn’t send him off to be a stranger’s bride, but he’s still surprised that the merchant met this arrogant man.

“Yes, before he died.” He states apathetically in a way that has the smaller male wince. “He was very honourable, unexpectedly smart and good with words. Traits I share.”

They enter another room through a secluded door that mirrors the one before, except the walls are dyed a stirring violet, and the portraits with edges of pure gold are sparsely spread out. The pictures are vibrantly detailed, of men or women in flowing earthen colours that meld with the environment, surrounded by grand creatures. Jihoon halts by the picture of a grandly standing man on a flaming chariot, pulled by large leathery beasts of the sky. It’s a supernatural beauty captured in his face and warm hazel eyes.

“That’s Hae Mosu.” Mingyu says in a tone of respect, bowing his head lightly. “The god of the sky.”

Jihoon can’t help but stare avidly at the great figure, absolutely taken for a reason without words. There’s a warm feeling that thrums in his chest, heartbeat steady to the strings of song of their chariot.

“You resemble them.”

“What?” Jihoon turns, looking perplexedly at the taller male that smiles candidly in unadultered admiration. Must be the dark lighting, that allows his pale skin and curved eyes to give off a strange impression of an immaculate god with a sloping expression.

“You’re beautiful.” Mingyu states, bright hair and attire alight in the dark room, mimicking the appearance of a mystical creature from the heavens.

He waves his hand passively, before stepping away so they can make their way out of the room of gods.

 

†

 

To prepare for the swiftly approaching wedding to be held outside of the Goryeo palace in an unnamed location, his measurements are meticulously taken by the servant Soonyoung who also accommodates as a seamstress. The kitchen servants are frenzied preparing lush ingredients of vibrant shades from foreign locations while the other common maids in lavender bustle around with gleaming vases and long streams of a gold length.

The palace is in a state not dissimilar to a country at war due to the uneasy chaos barely contained by silk sheets and persimmons dipped in honey.

Simultaneously, the guests begin encroaching on the famed lands. People of high esteem, princes, princess, dignitaries from southern borders arriving to greet a single wedding. He wasn’t aware that this clan of the Yuan dynasty had so many aristocratic friends, much like his father had accumulated.

He amiably greets the prince of Silla, Seungcheol, with his brooding dark looks complemented by indigo accents that earned appreciative glances from many princesses.

“Jihoon,” He bows low, a gentle smirk lifting his charming features. Many seasons were spent roaming the markets and exploring rivulets as children, as his only companion was a prince. “I have not been graced with your presence for quite some time. And when I come to, I hear you’re getting married?”

“It was abrupt.” He replies, hiding the grimace of his expression when recalling the unfortunate turn of events. He shakes his head at the image of coiling smoke.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Seungcheol whispers softly, a strict yet warm heartedly empathetic leader for his people. His hand reaches to rest on his shoulder, a gesture of solidarity.

But it only takes the rustle of illustrious fabrics and the sheen of powdered gold for him to still his movements.

“I suggest you keep your dirty hands to yourself mortal.” Mingyu venomously says, the unbelievably haughty tone used for those lower than himself.

Seungcheol appears to want to retort, but halts himself and simply excuses his presence, casting a sad look to his old friend as his indigo robes swish forward to another dignitary.

“He’s my friend,” Jihoon spills out, holding back the glare he wants to direct at the taller boy. “Must you be so rude?”

The taller boy looks both exasperated and dignified, as if the answer is definitive for all his meager questions.

“He’s a mortal.” He spits out, chiselled features scrunched up to the bare minimum to express disgust.

Such a simple response doesn’t make sense to the heir, that is left to ponder as the other shuffles away to greet an extravagantly dressed guest, the first one he’s hailed this day.

There are sheens of black and red beads streaming down a dark train, layers of a light shade of ebony, head adorned by a strange hat structure with black pearls, resembling a crown. Their face is obscured by a stupendously patterned veil, leading his eyes downwards to a striking insignia of a crane.

His breathe hitches, the impassive room stifling his throat and constricting his small body.

He has to get out, so he starts ambling away in the opposite direction, especially as the darkly dressed individual turns to stare at him, frigid gaze making his nerves spontaneously alight. It’s all the other richly garbed guests that he ignores, darting into quiet hallways, anywhere away from the commotion. Away from that man.

The heir barely registers brushing past the prince of Baekje kingdom, Seokmin, a broad chested, genial man of the southern lands that boasts excellent trade and mountain sights, until he lightly calls his name.

“Jihoon-ssi? Are you alright?” Noble features, save for the downturn of expressive eyebrows. His gleaming forest green hanbok is a refreshing sight among bold colours scrambling for courtship.

“I’m alright,” Even to himself, his clipped and rushed voice speaks volumes about his honest state. He bites tirelessly at his lips, tasting a bit of copper. “Have you seen my guard?”

It accidently slips out; his only place of safety, being a peasant. Perhaps the aristocrats won’t reprimand him for a such a vulnerable fact, if they don’t find out.

“Hm,” Seokmin rubs at his chins, a prince raised to adore his people no matter the indiscernible standing. “I believe he was outside in the gardens.”

“Thank you,” This time he truly means his words, bowing before scrambling away, heartbeat racing uncomfortably at a pace he believes is unhealthy for a boy his age.

There’s a rush of strange indecipherable prickles that cloud his mind when he spots the familiar tall frame sitting amongst the carefully handcrafted palace wildflowers. Ever since treading out of his abode in Silla, it’s been difficult to maintain composure without the existence of home. It’s only been the remaining fragment of home that had been keeping the seams of his conscious together. Due to the influx of guests, he’d been firmly attached to his fiancées side, leaving his guard to wander aimlessly around, virtually anywhere else, since the prince had his own high class guards. Who admittedly never did anything except lounge around in a haughty manner reserved for royalty.

His voice breaks, unable to form proper words as he steps out into the serene afternoon. But it’s enough for the guard to hear, as Wonwoo turns his head, fixing his inky gaze on the shivering boy.

“Jihoon,” He says, before concern mars his features, able to discern the faintest emotions of his charge. “What’s wrong?”

There’s a wet feeling dripping down his cheeks, and he hides his face with the long lilac sleeves of his hanbok, embarrassed by his show of weakness. He only ever shows his guard a weak face.

Warm hands reach his shoulders, grounding him to earth, and his shaky legs fall out under him. However, the guard is prepared for that and gently orchestrates the heir down to the soft grass, mimicking a strange sheen of blue reflected against the clear sky.

He blubbers into their shoulders, heaving in mundane fear. Ironic, that he wouldn’t have dreamt of committing such a susceptible act only a few months ago.

“What’s wrong?” Wonwoo asks again, wiping the edges of his dark hanbok on Jihoon’s face as trails of water trace glistening paths on their pale skin. His expression is defenselessly anxious, borderline fond. But maybe he’s just making that up as the thunder of his chest creates of a fogy vision.

He takes in a deep breath. “The crane and the black outfit. He’s here and I’m scared, I don’t know what to do.”

“Who?”

“The man who killed my father.” He chokes out, tight hands clenching the guard’s robe. Similarly, the grip on his back increases, and he starts as he is pulled into their chest.

He cries as the wind is still, tuning out the cacophony of the world for once to simply embrace the blue feelings welling up like a waterfall.

“I won’t let him hurt you,” Wonwoo whispers under his breath, looking down at the small figure.

~~And Jihoon wants nothing more than to say the same back.~~

They’re ignorant to the watchful stare from inside the velvet hallways, striking features and fair skin from the northern kingdoms. The young boy robed in a dark midnight and gold hanbok accentuating his light caramel curls turns around while gripping his bronze staff, only to come face to face with a cherubic face.

“Aren’t they adorable?” The round-faced boy says, slightly shorter than the Yuan dynasty guard.

“Er,” The guard, named Vernon stutters, taken aback by their bold proximity. “Yeah.”

“Keep it a secret okay,” The boy dressed in lavender, signalling a servant whispers, leaning close with expressively large brown eyes twinkling with scrupulousness. “Between you and me.”

“Stop dilly dallying Seungkwan and clean the bathtub!” An exasperated voice shouts. He only giggles, and the guard is entranced, winking, before dashing off to the source of the voice.

Vernon stills, staring it his fingers, that heat up in a way that travels up to his ears. Sure, he should inform his master Mingyu, the great esteemed prince of their clan, about this noteworthy spectacle. But reminiscing back on his promise, he surmises it can wait for a bit. Maybe forever.

 

†

 

Jihoon accepts dinner in his room for that night, and many following, as he is too scared to happen upon the man in black. He’s joined by his guard, Jisoo, the priest that had been furtively exploring the depths of the castle in that elusive way of his, and his fox, who had remained cooped up.

Jeonghan lays in his lap in fox form as he aimlessly strokes at the soft, white fur. He stares wordlessly as his guard starts the inevitable conversation with the wizened priest that whittles away at a teakwood branch.

“What, do you know about the man with the symbol of a crane?” Wonwoo starts, having brought a small array of his weapons with him, sitting on the vanity threateningly.

Jisoo stops the soft scrapes on the mundane branch, staring carefully at the pair. “Why do you ask?”

“Because he’s here.”

The priest seems to reluctantly take in the information, sighing heavily before grabbing a thin, weathered book out of his hanbok. He opens it to a strange picture of a great, scaly beast soaring in the sky with a lithe body. A dragon.

“The crane clan has been roaming the three kingdoms for some time.” He says, before nervously glancing at the guard that stares perplexedly at the design. “Wrecking havoc, destroying entire villages, even kingdoms, just out of their fancy.”

Wonwoo looks up. “Villages?”

The priest nods wretchedly, not meeting the taller man’s searching gaze and instead focusing on the brown beads around his hand. “Yes, as priests we are taught to be wary of such a malevolent force. They are commanded by the man; Xie, whose word is ultimate.”

“But,” The guard looks unreservedly frazzled, pupils darting apprehensively. “According to his servants, he wants Jihoon; enough to kill.”

He spares a glance at the heir, that has become deathly still, hands shaking above the fox. Jeonghan slips out of their grasp, turning to his human form to wrap an arm around the boy who tightly clutches at the immortal being, soothing his quickening heart.

“Is there anything we can do to stop him?” Wonwoo practically yells, breaking his natural composure.

“He can’t be stopped.” Jisoo says dejectedly, even as the guard stands up in an outrage.

“Isn’t he only human,” He whispers harshly, grabbing his weapons in a flurry of anger, heaving on a long sword on his back, before simmering and simply gripping at the edges of the table in a silent fury with a touch of grief. More than those brightly dyed emotions, he seems frightened. Scared of the world in a manner he shouldn’t have displayed since a child witnessed their village burn down.

The priest only shakes his head.

It takes a moment of steady breathing for the guard to pause. He seems to be enlightened, swiftly sliding the door open while his eyes are tinged in tenacious determination. Immediately, the priest is gathering up his things, rising to his feet to follow the undecipherable male.

“Wait, Wonwoo!” He calls out, just as the heir passes him to follow his guard closely, followed by the Gumiho that uses paws rather than feet to pad more rapidly.

Jihoon is trailing the heavy steps of his guard, not daring to say a word to preserve strength for hurried steps. The priest follows behind, gripping tightly on his beads while a nervous expression emerges on his youthful features.

“Wonwoo, don’t do anything rash,” Jisoo warns, pale blue hanbok fluttering against the current of man. But his warnings seem to fall flat, as the guard starts climbing up the main scarlet staircase, his destination growing clearer by the second.

He doesn’t stop at the wide golden doors, instead slamming them open, revealing an opulent room lavishly decorated in pure gold, a size greater than even Jihoon’s over-the-top abode. One guard instantly stands up, intimidatingly holding their golden spear and stepping toward the intruder, only to have Wonwoo glare darkly. An inky gaze of hostile fortitude that gives him an untouchable aura, as shown by the guard that falters.

He boldly steps into the room, where at a small table, sits a picturesque game of mah-jong, and a prince that is soundlessly seething with irritation, smoke seeming to curl out of their mouth when their sharp teeth glint against the magnificent gold.

“Prince.” Wonwoo says blandly, before rushing forward and slamming a fist on the table, causing the outraged prince to stand up.

But before he can say a word the guard is brandishing his sword with the symbol of a wildflower, and slamming it into the ground, lowering his head respectfully, save for his eyes that never stray from the prince’s otherworldly gaze that is filled with the crimson of dawn. The prince sputters in confusion, pulling up his long robes of amber haughtily while looking down at the guard.

“If you have any sentiment for your betrothed,” He says in a pleading voice, “Then protect him.”

The prince huffs, charming features downturned. “I don’t need to be told that from a mortal.”

His personal guard, a dashing young fellow sharing mystifying looks dressed in bronze robes matched with dark blues, warily eyes the new attendees of the room, noticing it smells like incense found in spindly forests. The tall males glare at each other, a clear animosity lingering in the atmosphere that spans simple borders, the type of famed rivalry known to create wars from dust, blood from wine.

“Please, protect him,” Wonwoo says in a softer voice, much to the priest’s chagrin as he stumbles into the room, his beads quaking in a strange motion. “From the man in black.”

Mingyu pauses, an ethereal silence of thought. “From… Xie?”

The priest starts at the casual spouting of such a wicked name, squeezing his beads behind the silent Jihoon and the fox hiding under his brimming hanbok.

“Is it true, Jihoon,” The prince is suddenly in front of the smaller boy following a slight draught, gripping at his arms and looking down with a hint of uneasiness clouding his bright orbs. “Did Xie attack you?”

Jihoon averts his gaze uncomfortably.

“He killed my father.”

The brief concern revealed on the prince’s flawless façade disappears, as he shares an inscrutable look with his guard, who proceeds to shut the large doors after casting a sharp glance around the hallways with pupils an off shade of golden. Eventually, Mingyu releases the other from his tight hold, stepping back while keeping his eyes on his betrothed.

“But,” The prince says, gaze obscure, as the guard pulls up a luxurious chair for him to seat himself on, “Jihoon is mine. That is the decree the gods laid out exclusively for me.”

The heir frowns at such an audacious claim, oblivious to the way the priest becomes agape, madly flipping in his thin book.

“Then strike the man down,” Wonwoo retorts, dark brows scrunched up.

“A mortal wouldn’t understand the basicity of manners.”

“What manners,” The guard growls lowly, “Are required in bloodshed, prince?”

The prince glares furiously, the fine shutters in the room vibrating intensely. “Escort them out, Vernon.”

The guard straightens out, strong arms built from decades of training in the mountain peaks forcibly removing the mousy priest, then hesitating at the tall mass that is Wonwoo, the heir’s personal guard. There is a hand on Jihoon’s hand halting him from similarly exiting the premises, the impenetrable force that is the Yuan dynasty prince coiling his feet to the floor.

“I will protect Jihoon.” Mingyu states, albeit possessively.

The guard looks like he wants to fight that order, until the priest grips his sleeves.

“He’ll be safest with the prince,” Jisoo says, a pitiful gaze tracing the tall male. “You know that.”

Wonwoo can only watch the astounded figure of his charge, the corners of his pink hued lips down turning, before he’s faced with thick doors of solid gold.

 

 

_He marvels at the gleam of the practice sword, barely focused on his opponent that lays on the ground, incredulously staring up at him. A friend of his that trained with the Silla army. Practicing everyday spars with the head of guards and other estate soldiers really did lengthen his skillset, now expecting certain movements and stepping up to defend them._

_“I, beat you,” He mumbles, before lighting up, twirling around to stare a sage, old man that appraises his swift movements that sharpen with age. “I did it!”_

_His friend huffs laughter, taking defeat easily as he jumps to his feet, while the man puts away the leather-bound book to the side, rising from his forested hanbok. “You did.” The semblance of fondness is written over a fair visage, and it makes him hearten with pride._

_There is a sea of maids that passes, dragging a small male ordained in gleaming maroon robes, pale skin unmarred and petite features pulled into the hints of a frown, though the expression remains resolutely blank. He can’t help but stare at the old man’s only son, always wrapped in rich robes and surrounded by servants, and wonders what their voice sounds like before there is wood pressed against his neck and he is launched into an avenging fight._

_Through a fog of striking sticks and swooping kicks, he can make out the old man hurrying to join his only son, creating a picture of luxury found only in a wealthy family’s legacy. There’s a blow to his stomach that has him doubling over, while his friend also falls onto warm grass from a swipe to his legs._

_His friend follows his eyes, sighing at the scene. “It’s his highness. Must be nice living life like that.”_

_“Highness? But he isn’t a prince, is he?” He questions, watching the smaller man escorted into the small carriage held up by four brawny guards, opulent features disappearing in the haven of a finely decorated compartment._

_“No,” His friend explains, crawling forward to grab the practice sword. “But he will be.” Which doesn’t make sense to him, but he lets the questions simmer away as they start up another spar._

 

If he thought those rose hued days were horrid, the moments spent in the golden abode of extravagance are certainly not a cascade of Silla shores, arrays of colourful seashells slipping their ways onto sandy dunes. Jihoon isn’t allowed outside of the room under any circumstance, stuck with the stagnant company of his guard or with the arrogant prince himself that kept challenging him to rounds of mah-jong, claiming eventual foul whenever he succeeds. His fox only slips in at certain moments when the two are not present, disappearing instantly when they brashly enter the room.

Jihoon is curled up on one of the chairs, feeling hopelessly fed up, the guard hovering by his side, bronze spear glinting pointedly under gold light. His name is Vernon, which he learnt after asking him for two days straight, a title to match a serious, yet considerably young individual.

 “Your highness,” The guard starts, jolting him out of his stationary stupor. He fidgets uncomfortably, inching forward while a hard gaze is locked on the doors. Vernon whispers, “What is your relationship with Wonwoo-ssi?”

He blinks. “He’s my guard.”

“Really.” Vernon deadpans, molten gold eyes with thin pupils constantly assessing and processing in a factual manner.

“Yes.” Jihoon answers quickly. There’s a simmer of curiosity that compels him to ask his own question. “Do you perceive us as, something else?”

The guard shrugs in a boyish manner, evident of his age. “You seem close, that’s all.”

“Your highness.” He adds lamely.

But Jihoon remains unfocused. Perhaps it his dependency on his guard that portrays a strange image to dignitaries, their hushed whispers and disputed familial comradery. As a merchant’s son, he’s always been wary of strangers, for people are driven by need, and had little trusted friends. In fact, he can’t remember a friend. Other than Seungcheol, but that was a relationship born out of obligation. Partners were sparser, his father wrapping him in a cocoon of protection in heed of any greedy male or female.

His father wished for him to not wed a commoner. But he finds inaccuracies in such a fact, because it was his very father that fell in love with a peasant girl.

There’s a knock at the door, and the guard rushes forward to greet the visitor. He catches a glimpse of a swaying lavender hanbok and a round face, the guard breaking out into an infectious grin as the door closes and he’s left alone in taciturn golden. Perhaps a case of young love, something he doesn’t recognize.

He sighs, fiddling with the string of gold around his neck. It may be a gift, but the unrealistic jewelry feels more and more useless compared to the weight of words, or actions. His nose twitches uncomfortably at the scent of burnt cedar, rubbing his eyes blearily when he swears he can see an obsidian fog drift into the room.

No, that’s not his imagination, there is a thick black fog swirling in the room, before coming together. His eyes widen as the fog materializes into a figure in black; he recognizes them as the man with red beads adorning their locks that chased him and his guard in the forest. A servant of Xie.

His barely starts to yell, when they clasp a black gloved hand over their mouth and everything goes black.

 

 

Vernon renters the room after sharing an amiable conversation with the cherubic Seungkwan, him complaining about a potato mishap in the kitchen that had him smiling in a way he’d never conducted before, more focused on protecting the prince than mundane mortals.

He’s shocked when there is no one in the room, even after carefully considering every nook and cranny.

“Jihoon?” Someone else asks, causing him to dart his eyes at the illustrious male in the silver hanbok. The scent of forest is heady and he knows this is one of those wretched trickster Gumiho’s.

“Gumiho,” He growls low, only for those silver pupils to narrow at his aggressive stance.

“Where’s Jihoon, guard dog?” He seethes, thick tails of seven erupting from his back, silver eyes thinning to slivers in the image of an enraged fox spirit. Vernon steps back at the sight, bronze boots stepping on something hard.

He lifts his foot, only to find a red bead laying on the ground, uncharacteristic to the muted betrothed.

“Magician,” The Gumiho hisses, while the young guard starts unnervingly.

 

 

†

 

 

When he wakes up, he’s in a spacious white room with wide windows. He’s almost fooled by the scenic view, laying his head down on the soft pillow, before sitting up so fast that it hurts his head.

This is not his room, nor Mingyu’s.

He stumbles out of the warm bed, still in the same attire from the morning, an indigo hanbok, reaching the edges of the vast window, only to gasp. Wherever he is, it’s on the precipice of a mountain, evident by the steep drop onto the lands below, covered by slight plumes of clouds. At such a level, he’s practically in the sky.

He falls backwards, legs bunching up to his chest. Despite his warm attire, he’s shivering. Jihoon can barely attempt to tach his breath, as there is an ominous shadow that passes his windows, catching the sight of scaly, an almost leathery black that passes as soon as he saw it.

“What is that?” He whispers to himself.

“That, is the master Xie.” A smooth, low voice says behind him that him momentarily shocked, before he whips his small figure around to stare at the tall man with red beads in his brown hair. Their dark eyes stare down at him, and he ignores the hand they offer to lift him up. He ignores the offhanded comment. Xie is taller than him, but even he could not fill up the expanse of the sky.

They are holding out an illustrious white robe, mirroring a wedding hanbok; in fact, it looks suspiciously familiar to the one the servants had been preparing at the Goryeo palace, with the white silk insets and the gold threads incandescently mixed with the pale snow coloured fabric.

Maybe it’s futile, but he stubbornly ignores the other male and simply stares out of the window. He’d not dare jump out to his ultimate death, yet the thought entices him nonetheless, to escape whatever horrible fate this wicked Xie plans for him.

“Please change.” They state. “You are to be wedded to master Xie.”

“Wedded?” He splutters, an undeniably displeased expression souring his soft features. He’s not one to display emotions clearly on his face, but he cannot stop the dread that rises in his chest. Why would such a wicked man wed him, instead of some equally repulsive entity?

“Why?”

They have a thoughtful look, before simply saying. “You’re good luck.”

“I refuse to marry a murderer.” He spits out, his incessant fear replaced by anger for this unjust punishment from the heavens and mourning for the wizened, kind, honourable old men’s lives that this man must’ve stolen away to sate his twisted pleasure. Again, he stares wistfully out of the windows. “I’d rather die.”

They sigh, an almost pitying expression. “And have him kill all your friends? He started with your family, and he will not hesitate to destroy an entire kingdom out of pure wrath. At least if you’re alive you can bargain with him.”

He thinks back on the courteous people of Silla, or the bustling hub of Goryeo, with it’s many courtesans and scholars centered around the royal palace. There’s so many honourable people in that palace, such as the princes of the three kingdoms, or those genial servants, wise priests, luxurious foxes, even Mingyu, for all his annoying traits he is not someone he would wish to die. Or his guard. His fists clench on the edge of the window, casting one glance before reluctantly grabbing the clothes. If it’s for the lives of those people, then he’d willingly give up his ridiculous notion of freedom.

It’s only changing into the hefty train of the eminent, rather wraithlike white robes with golden seams and patterns of a great winged beast that he turns his miniscule spite toward the diligent servant of a malevolent man. Letting a glare sit on his face while staring at his figure in the mirror. He looks like a proper bride. But it only fills him with a bitter feeling of responsibility. He’d much rather prefer spending the rest of his life with the immature prince than a murdering madman.

“Come, your highness,” The servant says, opening thick wooden doors to a sprawling space. Outside of the quaint white room is a more old-fashioned, wooden style abode, littered with thick scrolls and a table displaying war tactics.

Before the master enters the room, its already obvious from the suffocating atmosphere and the way the servants in black stiffen, slinking away with their backs to the walls. He’s as imposing as he recalls, in obsidian gowns that contrast his wedding robes, a black veil hiding his features while a crown of black pearls lays on his head.

“My bride.” He says, in a slithery voice that has shivers running up his spine. Jihoon can only attempt to not flinch as the master steps around him, appraising his appearance. After deeming it appropriate, the servants line up, leading the way to the entrance that guides only to the skies.

One servant runs forward, leaping out of the entrance to what he assumes is his inevitable death, but appears not to be when a green scaly creature appears, hovering in his place with thick, leathery wings that pound softly in the air.

A dragon, is the thought that clouds his frenzied mind, the creature of legends, in front of him. He remains frazzled as the servants lead him onto the surprisingly steady back of the dragon, sitting down on emerald scales that feel cool under his heated skin. Master Xie is thankfully on another dragon, this time of an indigo shade, as the great fabled beasts rise to the skies.

Jihoon’s jaw drops at the impressive scene of the blue skies, high enough to catch the glimpse of stars, almost calming the sickening bundle of nerves resting in his stomach, but a sparing glance down at the grounds where his people lay, has him fearing the proceedings intended to take place.

 

 

 

“What?!” Mingyu yells furiously at his guard that’s gaze is locked on the grass, wincing at the volumes of his master, ethereally blonde locks startling under the bright sky. “Jihoon has disappeared?!”

 “It’s those damn black magicians,” The Gumiho hisses, sauntering forward with a venomous glare.

The prince stares at the seven-tailed fox spirit in surprise, before a glower crosses his dashing features. His fists are clenched under the long sleeves of his glistening hanbok, stalking around the garden in utter fury. The temperature seems to drop at his menacing aura, though it does not carry to the imperturbable priest that is flipping through his book.

“Aha!” Jisoo says, alerting their attention. “Black magicians are only employed by black dragons.”

“It’s one of your kind,” Jeonghan retorts, nerves affray simply in the presence of the other magical beast that shares an infamous enmity with the tailed foxes.

“Shut up fox!” Mingyu snaps, rubbing at his temples.

Behind the restless group is a silent Wonwoo that is stuck in a haywire. His charge, is missing. He’d promised his master Lee, the man that was nearly his father in all but blood, that he would protect his son with his entire life. His dying wish was simple; make Jihoon happy.

He’d failed. That’s what this meant.

“Xie,” He whispers, as the prince turns to stare at him. “That’s who stole him.”

“A black dragon,” Joshua whispers, rubbing at his wooden beads.

“Where is this Xie, then prince?” The fox spouts, locks shading the colours of incensed silver.

“I don’t know,” The prince erupts, frantic expression unfitting of his flowing garbs of gold. “Nobody knows. He keeps to himself mostly.”

“A dragon and half a god can only meet in a place of purity,” The priest says, before his hazel eyes light up stalwartly. “Where is the wedding to take place?”

“The east temple.” Mingyu answers, before his distant gaze brightens in understanding. “That’s where the bastard will be.”

“Vernon!” He commands resolutely, and the guard immediately drops his staff, shifting into a glistening copper scaled creature with a spindly figure that would roughly be around the same size as a large monastery in length. Any other time Wonwoo would groan because not only are mythological Gumiho’s real, but now dragons as well. Yet there’s something reassuring about the imposing sight of the fabled creature that reminds him of home.

The priest looks like he is going to faint from the sight alone, as Mingyu swings onto the beast, sitting down before waving the others on. The fox scampers on afterwards, even as the bronze dragon huffs uncomfortably.

Before Wonwoo rushes forward, the priest grabs him, slipping the string of wooden beads on his wrist. Jisoo smiles, in his mysteriously aged fashion. “You’ll need it.”

He graciously takes it, ignoring the vibrations emitting from the strange item, heaving on the scaly dragon that is strangely smooth, when the dragon lifts, the prince, a fox and a guard flying to save Lee Jihoon.

 

†

 

It’s a beautiful location; the cascading thousands of golden stairs illuminated under the bright sky, leading to a temple shrouded in pale gold and blushing rose that is neatly stacked towards the heavens.

This is without a doubt the location meant for his wedding, now sullied by the wicked Xie.

The dragons let them off at the top, where he is assisted by the handsome servant of the emerald scales by a firm hand. He lowers his eyes as the man in black comes closer, linking their arm with him in a manner of courtship that has him squeamish. He leads them to the edge of the stairs, the sun’s radiance bearing down on the unornate scene.

“I’ve been waiting to wed someone like you,” Their dark voice emerges, ebony veil obscuring any mention of his appearance. He assumes he’s ugly. “The rest of my life will be more than fortuitous.”

The master Xie slowly reaches up to remove his thin veil in an overly dramatic fashion, black gloved hands lifting the valuable piece of fabric to reveal an unpredictably normal face. Except for the thick scar running down his right eye, a brutal pink slash from a very formidable swordsman. It’s the same deep cuts his father favoured during swordplay, and he imagines that it is his principled father that was able to injure a murderer.

Behind him, the servant won’t meet his eyes, already resigned to a fate out of his hands. He wishes he could mirror such compliance, even when there is dread clogging his every move.

“Gods,” Xie shouts to the skies in a shrill voice that would irritate even the emperor of the skies, “Accept our communion!”

He reaches forward- before there is a great roar in the sky, the clouds crackling with thunder in a sunny sky. But it’s not weather, but a stupendously copper dragon that lands on the temple grounds.

“What is the spoiled palace brat doing here?” Xie cries, screeching at his servants. “Kill them!”

The servant rush forward, while the two dragons retain their majestic form and encroach on the bronze dragon that is admittedly larger than both combined.

He can’t help the rush of hope that wells up when he spots the tall figure of the prince stepping down, boldly stepping forward, along with his silver haired fox and his familiar guard that wears an unreadable expression shifting to relief when spotting him.

“Halt!” The prince shouts furiously, and the servants pause briefly, torn between following the orders of their master or the future king. The ones that step forward anyways are struck down by a manic fox spirit or the gleaming mortal sword. “Xie, that is my bride, by the will of Hae Mosu he belongs to me!”

“Brat,” The man in black barks, gripping Jihoon’s arm and pushing him backwards into the grasp of his main servant that holds him with a sad expression. “The half god can be any dragon’s as long as they are wedded. Which I plan to do.”

“I will take him by force, if I must,” Mingyu roars, starry glare focused on one target.

“You can’t beat me in battle,” Xie appears to mockingly laugh, “Child.”

The prince erupts, the plumes of smoke around him bursting out in sparks of gold as he transforms into a great golden dragon, larger than his guard, but with slighter wings, four legs and a long body that spirals in the sky. The type of principle dragon told in legends with stunned reverence. As strange as it is the fragments come together and Jihoon begins to understand the prince’s overtly narcissism and his disdain for people. He’s not only a prince; he’s a prince of dragons.

Taken by the challenge, the man in black shifts into a looming obsidian dragon around the same size, with imposingly large gristly wings that ceaselessly beat in the air, causing great gusts of wind.

They combat in the skies, flashes of ebony and molten gold clashing in a pristine blue, their great, fiery roars causing him to shake to the soles of his feet, the chars of flames spiralling downwards into patches of trees.

He can only watch helplessly at the fight above ground, and at his guard that looms closer, striking down the multitude of servants in black, along with the trickster fox that throws the servants down the stairs. Vernon roars, having easily beaten the two smaller dragons that lay limply in their human form after nearly being burned.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jihoon pleads to the servant holding him. There is hope, and if he can escape such a wicked grasp then why can’t he.

Their red beads glisten and the male smiles piteously. “Yes, I do. You don’t understand.”

The minuity of their words are followed by the resounding crash that has the entire forest trembling, the golden dragon having fallen to the ground a few meters away from the temple, while the terrifyingly black dragon slowly comes to solid ground, no doubt a self-satisfied smirk resting on their horrible features. He feels angered by such an act lacking humbleness, especially when Xie reaches over to the golden dragon to roar ferociously in their ear, the warble of their words indubitably conceited.

In place of Mingyu, he is the one infuriated.

Xie returns to the temple where his betrothed is held back, the guardian copper dragon compliantly stepping back after witnessing their own master defeated. When his fox hisses at the great beast intimidatingly bringing up his seven tails, he imitates yawning as he swats the fox spirit away into the depths of the forest.

He ignores the wet feeling on his cheeks as yells for black dragon to stop, squirming in the servant’s lax grip.

And the foolish, consistently loyal guard still bravely holds his sword at the beast.

The dragon roars, and opens his mouth to reveal sharp rows of glinting teeth aimed at the mortal. Wonwoo grips hard at the wooden beads on his wrist, intaking a deep breath, before throwing the sword. The beads crack under his bruising grip, just as the embellished sword strikes the dragon’s right eye, causing them to howl wildly in pain, smog billowing out of their flaring nostrils.

The black dragon’s opens its great jaws, ignoring the heir’s screams, and exhales a fiery combustible breath of scarlet flames that even he a distance away can feel the intense heat.

Jihoon screams, escaping from the lackluster grip from the servant in black, running forward into the center of the flames that are blown away by the blistering winds. Maybe it’s the smoke in his eyes, but his eyes keep welling up and dripping onto the charred grounds. He calls out the name, but there is no response.

With wet eyes, he spots his guard, in barely discernable burnt clothes, and a smudged face laying down, surrounded by the incessant blaze. Jihoon runs forward, gingerly falling to his knees in his white hanbok, cradling their head with his small hands.

“Wonwoo?” He sobs, blurrily staring down at a figure that frighteningly resembles his father. His tears are staining their face, so he stutteringly wipes his face on his sleeves, sniffing without a cease. This time there’s no one waiting for him. Nobody to save him as if he’s a princess. And he’s not, he’s not some begotten highness, he’s only the son of a fruitful companionship of a kind man and a strong woman. He’s always hated the illustrious title, because it shoved people away from his side and kneeling at his feet, and nobody but his father called him by his name. And the other one.

“Wake up. I order you.” He stammers while hiccupping on his sobs. No doubt his face is a wretched mess of a bride, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Come on,” He pleads to whoever listens, lips shaking as he presses a kiss on his guard’s cold forehead.

The smoke clears away, only pinpricks of fire remaining on the hallowed grounds, and there is the man in black that he hates so much, for taking away everything and anything he can possibly foster. He doesn’t care if they burn the world to smithereens, because Jihoon refuses to be near that man.

Though one eye is heavily injured by a silver sword, bleeding slightly, the other one widens comically.

“Stay away,” He screams, protectively hovering over the taller male.

The man makes no move, yet his heart races anyways.

“Despicable man, I hope you burn by your own wicked flames,” He blubbers, spouting out drivel to sooth the nonsensical scene before him.

Strangely, a surge of flames engulfs the man.

He refocuses his weary gaze on his guard, brushing his fingers on soft brown locks and tucking it behind their ears. There’s a glimmer of the night sky on the edges of his neck behind his ears, and running his fingers across the variance they are smooth like scales.

Jihoon notices, his skin is not charred. Quickly bringing the side of his face to his guard’s mouth, barely containing a choked sob when he can feel the faintest of cold air on his ears.

“Wonwoo?” He calls, tears slipping down his face, but this time he wears an endearing smile.

“He’ll be okay.”

There’s a man standing over him in a streaming hanbok of pale blue. They’re young, he swears, yet the deceptively youthful light blonde locks, button nose and small frame radiates with a knowledgeable aura. They smile and the sky opens to reveal the fleeting sight of warm hazel eyes and a choir of heavenly hosts. But what truly catches his attention is the satiable sight of a woman with long golden hair, and a man resembling his father as a young man looking down on him with the purest of expressions.

“Ah, heaven’s child you’ve been through quite the ordeal.” They amiably say, eyes full of brimming oceans and sprawling forests on the foundation of rich minerals, before considering the fallen guard. “You chose a companion well.”

He blinks and the starry figure is gone. There’s a groan under him, that has him gently shaking his guard, staring wide eyed as inky eyes stutter open.

“J-Jihoon?” Wonwoo starts, before his pupils flare open, wincing as he attempts to get up on his own. He helps the guard sit up while wiping away the warm tears rolling down his raised cheeks. It must be a habit, that has the taller male wiping away at his face. “Your hair…?”

He sputters, a grin breaking out through the rush of tears. “You almost died and you’re concerned about my hair?’

“No,” His inky eyes are soft. They’ve always been, he just disregarded such a simple fact. “Your hair, it’s lighter.”

He brings a shy hand to his hair, even as the guard casts him a fond look and lowers his arms.

“You’re not allowed,” Jihoon wraps his arms around their larger frame, gripping tightly. “To die, okay?”

_“That’s ridiculous,” Wonwoo simply states, welcoming the embrace of the smaller male. He can’t help the affectionate stare that bears into the male he witnessed grow up from a spinning child decorated in muted, summery shades, to the beautiful young man that entranced all people with his winter kissed skin and the season of autumn that resembles his smile._

_He avidly watches as they bound over to a silver haired male, embracing them tightly while the fox’s ear tinge scarlet. After staring at Mingyu, his gold train shredded, tall, dignified posture strangely submissive, and head of blonde locks lowered, Jihoon gives a sweet hug, startling the prince of dragons. Vernon stumbles toward his prince, patting his back hearteningly, and for the first time they take it without an arrogant retort._

_Maybe it’s his imagination, but the way the blueness of the sky reflects Jihoon’s light locks, barely stardust, seems as if the world curls under his touch. Surely, he follows their words in such a fashion._

 

†

 

The wedding is inevitably called off, as the bride has already wed himself to his guard, much to Jihoon’s utter surprise and embarrassment.

 

†

 

_The cicada whistles ring through the air, warm sun rays peeking out of tall, billowy trees as they trudge through the thin foliage. The trees sway unnaturally, humming tunes of fortuitous times, under the weight of an illustrious household. The wind picks up to traveller’s tune, and the male with a striking head of wheat coloured locks smiles._

_Wonwoo can’t help the returning grin that raises his spirited features, breaking his serious front, heaving several logs of wood on his back. Little scurries of animals trace their path, baby foxes and flighty birds entranced._

_They reach a dewy clearing, a special place carved out for solely them, where a little house built from sticks and stones lay, a thin plume of smoke wafting out of the chimney. Wonwoo gently lowers the logs onto the steadily increasing pile of logs in time for the autumn harvest._

“You know,” Jihoon starts after slipping into their humble abode, decorated by strange artifacts like a crown made of willow branches, a grand portrait of a golden dragon, a few recipe books, a necklace of clear beads, and several flowery headpieces. Occasionally, a dastardly fox will visit him in the company of a doting priest that struggles to master whittling a proper staff, or a legion of golden dragons that shyly gather bouquets of wildflowers, or even a wandering prince, soon to be king, happening on their abode and amiably greeting him.

He thumbs at the golden thread around his neck, fondly recalling the comforting presence of his broad chested father. “It’s almost my birthday.”

The taller male stares at the sun, attempting to decipher a number from the position of the stars. “Oh really. Is that not the day the sky cries meteors?”

“Coincidentally, yes.” He retorts, stilling when Wonwoo steps up to him and gives him a chaste kiss on the lips.

“There.”

Jihoon can’t fight the blush that climbs up his ears.

“Do you want anything?” He asks seriously.

There’s the picture of a boy running around in countless fields of sunflowers.

“Nothing really.” He doesn’t lie, as he already has the world at the palm of his fingers and staring back at him.

 

The next day they find a wild boy in the forest that enjoys climbing trees and catching sparrows.

His name is Samuel.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Key Points  
> \- Wonhoon = Guard and Highness relationship  
> \- Mingyu as haughty Dragon Prince + only friend dragon Vernon  
> \- Joshua as Priest, obviously  
> \- Jeonghan as Gumiho, almost more obviously  
> \- Chan, Seokmin, Seungcheol are Princes (duh)  
> \- Seungkwan, Soonyoung as palace servants  
> \- Jun as 'Evil' Magician is a good guy inside  
> \- Myungho is an Angel/Celestial, of course


End file.
